Destroyer of Legends

by Clayton Wood

  “Clearly I’m a lot more violent than you thought,” she retorted. But she broke out into a smile, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I tell you what,” she proposed. “You come back from this whole war thing alive, and we’ll give it a shot. Hell, I might even let you give me some of your goo.”

  Hunter chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Deal?” she pressed. Hunter nodded

  “Deal.”

  “Don’t forget your helmet,” she reminded him.

  He reached down, picking it up off the ground and putting it back on his head. Sukri leaned in then, pressing her lips against his. For a while. Then she pulled away.

  “Now get out of here,” she ordered, shoving him away playfully. “And come back in one piece, okay?”

  Hunter nodded, then stepped back, jumping into the air and beating his wings. He’d been practicing taking off from standing for much of the afternoon yesterday; the ground dropped beneath his feet, and he waved at Sukri, flying up until he was a good thirty feet above the treetops, then spreading his wings out and gliding forward. The wind whipped around him as he gained speed, following the Ironclad army marching through the forest below. He overtook them quickly, speeding above the treetops, searching for favorable air currents. The telltale sensation of wind filling his wings signaled his success, and he flapped his wings, flying higher and higher. Within minutes, the ground was hundreds of feet below; he relaxed into a glide again, studying the terrain ahead.

  Tykus was north of the Ironclad base; without being able to use the sun as a compass, he had to resort to using the stars. Luckily Vi had taught him how to do so weeks ago. He angled northward, picking up speed, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. It was truly freeing, being able to fly like this. To know that, on a whim, he could leave the world behind…could go anywhere he wanted, without fear of alien wills transforming him. He couldn’t imagine going back to how he’d been before.

  Minutes passed, and he spotted the King’s Road ahead, snaking through the forest. He followed it, flying so high above that no guard patrolling it would even realize he was there. And if they happened to see him flying, they’d just assume he was a bird. It wasn’t long before the deep forest transitioned to the Fringe, heralded by an abrupt change in the vegetation. To think that this trip had taken him hours in the past, even by carriage!

  A short while later, he spotted the end of the forest, the vast expanse of the Deadlands ahead. He followed the King’s Road, reaching the Deadlands, making sure to maintain altitude. There was a large, walled-off military base a kilometer or so ahead and to the right; he ignored it, following the King’s Road toward the Kingdom further north.

  It wasn’t long before he saw it: the massive wall of the Kingdom surrounding a vast metropolis at the base of a huge hill. And atop this hill, the huge fortress that was the Acropolis, its golden roofs contrasting sharply with its stark white walls. A chill ran through him, the memory of the first time he’d stood on the King’s Road, gawking at the great kingdom, coming to him.

  He’d been just a kid then. Lost, angry. Resentful. Using sarcasm to hide his insecurities, and to create a wall between himself and anyone else that might actually care.

  He smiled, gliding steadily toward the kingdom. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then, even though it’d only been a couple months at most. And now he was a different person – literally as well as figuratively – with a family and friends that would die for him. And whom he lived for.

  Now it was time to wait. He would fly high above the city, looking for all the world like just another bird to anyone watching. But when the Ironclad swarmed into the city, he would show Tykus what he was capable of.

  * * *

  “Hey!”

  Sempton groaned, rolling away from the sound and burying his head into his pillow. He felt a hand grab his shoulder and shake it.

  “Wake up!”

  Sempton sighed, rolling onto his back and opening his eyes. The short wooden ceiling of the common sleeping barracks was only a meter above. He glanced to his right, seeing a man perched on the ladder of his bunkbed. It was Percy, his bunkmate.

  “What?” Sempton grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  “Something’s happening,” Percy explained. “It’s…”

  The front door of the barracks burst open, a tall man in full armor striding through. It was Sergeant Mannin.

  “All right people,” he barked. “Load up and line up! This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!”

  Sempton sat bolt upright…and slammed his forehead on the ceiling.

  “Ah, fuck,” he swore, rubbing his head gingerly.

  “Come on,” Percy urged, hopping down from the ladder. Sempton rolled out of bed, climbing down the ladder to the floor below. Percy was already putting on his armor…as were the other thirty-odd men in the barracks. Sempton followed suit, fumbling to get his breeches on.

  “Move it!” Sergeant Mannin yelled. “Go, go!”

  Percy finished dressing, and Sempton struggled to catch up, cinching his belt around his waist, his sword at his left hip. He put on his helmet, then followed Percy past the Sergeant and out of the barracks. They emerged into the cool night air, row after row of squat wooden buildings greeting them. The Deadlands military base was a step up from the shithole the Outskirts had been, but it was purely utilitarian. A semi-permanent town completely surrounded by a seven-meter wall.

  All around them, soldiers spilled out of their barracks, rushing into the narrow dirt streets.

  Sempton swallowed in a dry throat, his heart thumping in his chest. He glanced at Percy, who glanced back wordlessly, fingering the hilt of his sword. Sergeant Mannin strode out of the barracks, coming to the front of the line of soldiers.

  “Get to the north wall!” he shouted, pointing to the left. “Form a line with the others!”

  “What’s going on?” someone asked. Another soldier shouted, pointing to the north wall a half-kilometer away. Sempton turned, peering into the darkness; the wall was lit by torches, their flames whipping around in the wind.

  Then he saw it.

  Countless shadows pouring over the wall, appearing atop it and leaping down into the base.

  “Form a goddamn line!” Sergeant Mannin screamed, sprinting toward the wall. The other soldiers followed, unsheathing their swords. Percy did too…and Sempton followed behind the man, turning left down the narrow dirt road and running toward the wall. Hundreds of soldiers packed the street ahead of them, all of them rushing toward the shapes plunging into the base. Lit from behind by the torches on the wall, Sempton could barely make out huge figures. Hundreds of them swarming toward them.

  Shit.

  He slowed, letting soldiers pass him by on either side, watching as the things reached the front of the line of soldiers…and plowed right through them.

  “Ironclad!” a voice screamed.

  Sempton felt hands shove him from behind, and he stumbled forward, catching his balance. He was pressed forward by the soldiers behind him.

  “Go, go!” one of them yelled at him.

  He picked up his pace, moving to the left as he went forward, slipping between the other soldiers…and watching as soldiers on the front lines were tossed into the air, their swords flying from their hands. One of the soldiers was lifted by the arms; the Ironclad holding them pulled, tearing the soldier’s arms from his body. The man screamed in agony, blood spurting from the stumps of his shoulders.

  Shit!

  Sempton continued moving forward and leftward, until he reached the edge of the column of soldiers. He spotted a side-street ahead, and pressed forward.

  Come on, come on…

  He reached the side-street, and ducked down it, hiding behind a few large boxes stacked against the wall of one of the buildings. He paused there, waiting for someone to follow him, or to call him out.

  But there was only the sound of marching feet, and of screams and indistinct shouting in the distance.

  Sempton c
rouched there, a hand on the hilt of his sword. He’d never been in battle before, having barely made it out of basic training. Joining the military was supposed to have been his ticket out of the Outskirts, a way to make a decent wage and get exposed to artifacts that would change him. Lighten his skin and hair, and give him a chance at being able to move out of the Outskirts and into Lowtown. To finally make a good wage to support his family.

  He sure as hell didn’t sign up for this.

  There was more screaming, seeming closer now, and Sempton cursed under his breath, glancing around. There was an open door leading into the building he was crouched next to; he ducked inside, closing the door behind him and locking it.

  More sleeping quarters greeted him, identical to the one he’d been sleeping in. And to his immense relief, the room was deserted. He paused, looking around the room for somewhere to hide; the only option was under one of the bunkbeds. He walked up to one, laying on the floor and trying to scooch under, but it was too tight a squeeze. Sempton cursed, getting to his feet.

  Bam!

  Sempton spun around.

  “Help!” a voice shouted from beyond the door he’d come through.

  Bam bam bam!

  “Help me!”

  There was a garbled scream, then a loud thump. Then silence.

  BAM!

  The door rattled, the frame around it cracking.

  Sempton turned and ran.

  He rushed to the rear exit of the barracks, shoving the door open and bursting into the street beyond…and colliding into a group of soldiers. They cursed, shoving him backward onto the dirt.

  And then an Ironclad rammed into the group, sending the men flying.

  “Shit!” Sempton swore, scrambling to his feet. The Ironclad roared, grabbing one of the soldiers by the throat and tearing out his windpipe. It tossed the man aside, leaping on top of another soldier, tearing off his limbs one-by-one and tossing them aside.

  Sempton ran, sprinting as fast as he could down the street away from the soldiers and Ironclad, then ducking down a side-street. He found another building to the right, bursting through the door and slamming it behind him, searching frantically for somewhere to hide. It was a storage facility, armor and weapons hanging by hooks on the walls. He spotted a closet door to his left, and sprinted up to it, opening it and huddling inside, closing the door in front of him.

  There was utter darkness.

  Sempton lowered himself onto his butt, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, sweat dripping down his forehead into his eyes. His every breath sounded far too loud, and he focused on slowing his breathing, keeping his ears peeled.

  Silence.

  He allowed himself a sigh of relief, wiping more sweat from his forehead, then closing his eyes.

  There was a muted scream from outside.

  Sempton’s eyes snapped open.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  He froze, hearing the sound get closer. It stopped suddenly, right before the closet door, and he hear a snorting sound. Heavy breathing, like a horse’s.

  Oh shit oh shit…

  A warm wetness spread across his groin, and he began to shake uncontrollably, the unmistakable stink of piss hitting him.

  The doorknob creaked, and the closet door swung open slowly, revealing a huge black figure. One with two pairs of massive arms.

  It reached for him with four hands, and Sempton screamed.

  * * *

  The air in the wide tunnel leading from the Fringe under the Deadlands was musty, forcing Vi to breathe through her mouth as she followed Xerxes and the other Ironclad down it. A few of the Ironclad carried torches, providing just enough light for the nocturnal creatures to see. Of course, with Xerxes’ glowing mane and tail bathing the immediate area in dull blue, Vi had no problem finding her way. Not that she would’ve anyway, considering the slight alterations she’d made to her eyes long ago.

  She heard the literal army of Ironclad stomping down the tunnel behind her, and sped up to walk beside Xerxes.

  “You nervous, Blue?” she inquired.

  “NO.”

  “You sure?” she pressed, flashing him a wicked grin. “You can tell me if you are, you know. We can work through it.”

  Xerxes ignored her, and she chuckled, patting him on one of his huge arms. Xerxes was never nervous, at least not in battle. Being immortal certainly helped. She suspected he didn’t worry about himself at all. His health, or pain, or wealth, or any of the things that normal people spent their lives agonizing over. Xerxes only cared about his people. And his family.

  The guy was the most selfless being Vi had ever met.

  She’d heard the old saying many times, that if you wanted to learn someone’s true character, give them power. And so many people in the kingdom – Dominus, the other dukes, even her own uncle, who’d used what little power he’d had to rape her as a child – had failed that test. Men who proclaimed to be of impeccable virtue, yet possessed none.

  Vi smiled up at Xerxes.

  “You’re a good man, you know that?” she told him. He glanced down at her as they walked, a questioning look on his face. “You and Hunter are two peas in a pod.”

  Xerxes grunted.

  “He’s a good man, but young,” he signed. “He worries too much about what doesn’t matter. Can’t focus on what does.”

  “He’ll learn,” Vi replied. Xerxes nodded, signing again.

  “Life will teach him.”

  Vi didn’t reply, looking ahead. They were close to the end of the tunnel now. By Xerxes’ calculations, the tunnel was a mere foot away from the basement of one of the taverns in Lowtown. The Ironclad ahead of Xerxes and Vi parted to let them through, and Xerxes strode all the way to the end of the tunnel, Vi at his side.

  Then the big guy turned, nodding at one of his generals and flashing a few hand signals. He stepped to the side then, and two Ironclad pressed forward, each using their four hands to dig furiously at the wall. The Ironclad were excellent diggers, their armored hands scooping the dirt and rocks away with ease. Sure enough, they reached dull gray stone, the foundation of the building.

  Luckily they’d brought warhammers.

  Everyone stood back as the two Ironclad swung their hammers, smashing through the wall to reveal a wine cellar beyond. Row after row of wooden shelves with bottles and casks of various alcoholic beverages.

  “Nice work,” Vi whispered, nodding at Xerxes. The guy’s calculations had been perfect; the tunnel had brought them right under the Ironside Inn. “Not bad for an oversized beetle.”

  Xerxes made another hand signal, and the Ironclad started pouring into the basement. Vi kept to one side, watching as they thundered by.

  “Ready when you are, Blue,” she stated.

  Xerxes paused, then pushed his way into the line, stomping into the cellar. Vi followed, nimbly avoiding being trampled by the big brutes all around her. She passed through the stone wall into the cellar, following the Ironclad up the stairs. There was a scream from the floor above, then the sound of glass shattering and a loud thud.

  Vi reached the top of the stairs, finding herself in a large tavern. A single body lay on the floor, surrounded by broken glass. Ironclad stomped out of the entrance into the street beyond. Vi followed them, hearing shouts from outside, followed by screams.

  She emerged from the tavern into the streets of Lowtown, faint sunlight heralding the arrival of dawn. Scanning the street and the rooftops around her, she spotted two dead guards lay on the street…but otherwise the street was deserted. Xerxes stopped beside her.

  “BARRACKS,” he growled. He flashed some quick hand signals with each of his four hands, communicating different messages to different generals…all at once. Then he turned to Vi.

  “You go west, I go east,” he signed. “Just like the plan.”

  Xerxes turned then, gesturing for his group of Ironclad to follow him as he sprinted down the street, turning left down a side-street. There were many barracks housing the City Guard, most of which
would be filled with fresh guards from the shift change an hour before. The two largest ones were to the northeast and northwest; taking them out would hamper the City Guard’s attempts at organizing their defenses.

  Vi broke out into a sprint, a literal army of Ironclad following behind her as she made her way down the winding streets toward the northeast barracks. She looked up, spotting two archers on the wall surrounding the city.

  Damn it Hunter!

  She whipped out her bow, nocking an arrow…and watched as both archers jerked, tumbling from the wall. A dark shadow swooped through the sky overhead, and Vi grinned.

  Atta-boy, she thought.

  Vi put her bow away, spotting a few guards patrolling ahead. They cursed, taking one look at the wave of Ironclad rushing at them…and running.

  But they couldn’t outrun the Ironclad…and they sure as hell couldn’t outrun Vi.

  She burst past the beasts, leaving them in her dust and closing the gap between herself and the guards rapidly, ending both of their cowardly – but very practical – lives with the edge of her sword. Then she stared at their lifeless bodies, her jawline rippling. They were just kids…not even twenty by the looks of it.

  Wrong place at the wrong time, she thought. They would’ve run to alert the authorities, she knew. But it was still a waste. Innocent boys paying the price for the games of old rich men.

  She spotted another archer on a rooftop ahead, and reached for her bow…right as an arrow slammed into the archer’s chest. Hunter flew by, looking Vi right in the eye and giving a thumb’s up. She shook her head, giving one more glance at the soldiers she’d killed.

  Focus, she told herself.

  She broke out into a jog, turning down another street to see a broad three-story stone building ahead. It was the barracks.

  A bell tolled in the distance. The emergency alarm to mobilize the City Guard.

  “Okay boys,” Vi shouted. “Light it up!”

  She ran up to the front wall of the barracks, stopping before one of the many large windows there and reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small bottle filled with oil, its mouth stuffed with fabric, and grabbed one of the torches from a nearby Ironclad, lighting the fabric and tossing the bottle through the window. A few Ironclad did the same, lighting their own firebombs and tossing them through other windows.